The Mark of Cain

“I do, – a little.” Eleanor Black bridled and smiled sadly. The jurymen gazed in involuntary admiration, for the features of the beautiful brunette took on an added charm from that slight smile.

“What is it?”

“He telephoned to me about two o’clock, saying he would be home early and we would go out for a little motor ride. He was very fond of motoring, – with me.”

The last two words were added in a lower tone that implied a most romantic attachment between these two.

“He intended to leave his office shortly after noon, then?”

“Possibly it was a little later than two that he called me up. I don’t remember exactly. But he said he would be home by three or four.”

“And when he did not appear were you not alarmed?”

“No, Mr. Trowbridge was so apt to have unexpected business matters turn up, that I merely supposed that was the case, and thought nothing strange of it. Nor was I surprised when he did not appear at six. I felt sure, then, that some important development in his affairs had kept him down town so late.”

“Miss Trowbridge was greatly alarmed?”

“Yes.”

The superb indifference of Eleanor Black’s manner showed clearly that it was a matter of no moment to her if another had been anxious.

“Have you any suspicion as to who could have done this thing?”

The great black eyes of the witness turned slowly toward the coroner. At the remark about Avice she had looked carelessly in another direction.

“I think not,” she said.

“Are you not sure?”

“What do you mean by suspicion?”

“Do you know of anybody who might have killed Mr. Trowbridge?”

“That’s no question!” Her scorn was marked. “Hundreds of people might have killed him.”

“Do you know of any one, then, who you think would be likely to have done so?”

“Likely to? Goodness, no.”

“Who possibly did do so, then?”

“Possibly?”

“Yes, possibly. Is there any one whom you can definitely consider a possible suspect?”

“No; I don’t know of any one.”

The widow was a most provoking witness. She gave an impression of holding something back, yet her face wore an ingenuous expression and she pouted a little, as if unfairly addressed.

“You were at home all day yesterday?” the coroner went on.

“Yes, I expected Mr. Trowbridge, so of course I did not go out.”

“Why, Eleanor,” exclaimed Avice, impulsively, “you went out for an hour soon after luncheon. Don’t you know, I gave you a letter to post?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot that,” and Mrs. Black looked a trifle confused. “I was sure Mr. Trowbridge wouldn’t get here before three, so I ran out for a few moments.”

“Where did you go?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular. I only went to get a little air. Just walking around the adjacent blocks.” She spoke lightly, but her heightened color and quickened breathing betokened an embarrassment which she strove not to show, and, too, she cast a glance at Avice that was anything but friendly.

The coroner seemed unable to think of anything else to ask the witness. He looked at her thoughtfully, and she returned his glance coolly, but he questioned her no further just then.

The butler came next, and his testimony was garbled and incoherent. His emotion frequently overcame him, and he was unable to speak.

At last Judge Hoyt spoke rather sharply to him.

“Brace up, Stryker,” he said. “If you can do a good turn for a master who was always kind to you, don’t spoil your chance by acting like a baby. If your betters can control themselves, surely you can.”

With an effort Stryker stopped shuffling about and a few more sniffs ended his emotional outburst.

“I’m sixty years old,” he said, apologetically, and, apparently, to all present, “and I’ve been in this same employ for fifteen years. It’s natural as to how I should feel bad, ain’t it, now, Mr. Coroner?”

“Yes, my man, but it’s also natural that you should try to control your grief. As Judge Hoyt says, you may render assistance to your late master by your testimony. Now, tell us all you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s callers of late, or any little thing that might come to your notice as a butler. Sometimes you servants have opportunities of observation not known upstairs.”

“That we have, sir,” and Stryker nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yes, that we have. But I know nothing, sir, nothing at all, as has a bearing on the death of the master, – no, sir, not anything.”

“‘Methinks the fellow doth protest too much,’” Pinckney murmured to himself. The reporter sat, with sharpened pencils, but so far he felt he had not much to work on in the way of clues. As to getting a story for his paper, he was more than satisfied. The elements of the fashionable household, a divided interest between the two women, the mysterious death of the millionaire, and now, the uncertain evidence of the old butler, all these would give him enough for a front page spread. But Pinckney wanted more than that. He wanted food for his detective instinct. He wanted clues and evidence of a tangible nature, or at least of an indicative trend. And he had found little so far. Still, he had found some, and he had tucked away in his mind several speeches and looks, that, though not emphasized by the coroner, seemed to him to point somewhere, even if he had no idea where.

Further questions brought nothing definite from Stryker, and he was succeeded by two of the maids. These frightened creatures were even less communicative, and it was with a sigh of relief that Coroner Berg gave up all attempt to learn anything from the household, and called on Judge Hoyt, feeling sure that now he would, at least, get intelligent testimony.

The Judge was too well known to be questioned as to his identity and the coroner proceeded to ask concerning his relations with the deceased.

“Lifelong friends, almost,” replied Hoyt. “We were at college together and have been more or less associated ever since. Unfortunately, I was out of town yesterday, or I might know more of Mr. Trowbridge’s movements. For I had expected to see him at his office, but was prevented by an unexpected call to Philadelphia. I wrote to Mr. Trowbridge that I could not see him until evening, and as the Philadelphia matter was connected with his business, I telegraphed from there that I would call at his house last evening, and give him my report.”

“And then Miss Trowbridge telephoned you?” observed the coroner, who had heard this before.

“Yes, and I came right up here, and was here when the police telephoned of their discovery.”

“Then as you can tell us nothing of yesterday’s events, can you throw any light on the case by anything you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s affairs in general? Had he any enemies, or any quarrel of importance?”

“No, I am sure he had no quarrel with any one who would go so far as to kill him. It seems to me it must have been the work of some of those Camorra societies.”

“Why would they attack him?”

“Only for purposes of robbery, I should say. But the dagger implies or may imply an Italian, for American citizens do not go around with such weapons.”

“That is true. And there may have been robbery of some valuables that we do not know of. But do you think, Judge Hoyt, that the Camorra is such a desperate menace? Are not fears of it exaggerated and unfounded?”